


Open up my Eager Eyes

by bofurrific



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Because it's the Winter Soldier I mean he can't really consent, Brock Rumlow is a dick, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Gangbang, HYDRA Trash Party, It started out sweet and rapidly rolled down hill into the dumpster, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements, Steve Rogers is a Good Guy, Touch-Starved, trashkink, which is where I belong let's be real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 01:21:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1800241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bofurrific/pseuds/bofurrific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s the soft touch, not the bite of the needle, that draws a gasp from him, a quick quiet thing, shaky in the silence of the camp, and he presses back into it just enough that it’s noticeable."</p>
<p>Also known as: </p>
<p>The Winter Soldier is touch-starved. Some people take advantage of that.</p>
<p>And by "some people" I mean "Brock Rumlow and his team"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open up my Eager Eyes

1. 

The first time it happens, it’s an accident. The asset is injured, enough that they can’t wait until they get back to base, enough that he grunts “not fully functioning” in a begrudging tone when asked if he’s all right (they’re new still, young blood, and don’t know that their only job is to get the fuck out of the soldier’s way, not ask how he’s doing.)

Helsel has the most medical experience out of all of them, but the rest circle them anyway, curious, as the soldier strips, revealing a deep gash running near the length of the metal shoulder. He doesn’t make a sound when Helsel cleans it, but he tenses as the needle dips into the ragged edge of the wound and Helsel places a soothing hand between uninjured shoulder blades and rubs gently. It’s the soft touch, not the bite of the needle, that draws a gasp from him, a quick quiet thing, shaky in the silence of the camp, and he presses back into it just enough that it’s noticeable. 

When Helsel needs two hands to finish, Rumlow leans in and takes over the slow stroke of the soldier’s back and he melts pathetically into it; the sound he makes is a broken one of need and surprise and Rumlow keeps petting for awhile after the job is finished and Helsel is cleaning his tools.

The soldier stays close to the two of them after, even goes out of his way to save them once although it’s not his prime directive and he’s never done it before. Helsel catches on faster than Rumlow, gently bumps shoulders with him when they walk side by side, makes sure his gloves are off when he hands the soldier his MREs and lets his hand linger a little longer than he needs to before the food leaves his grasp. 

When Rumlow finally gets it, he claps a hand on the asset’s flesh shoulder after they finish a mission, drops next to him, thighs brushing, when they sit by the fire. The three of them take to riding together, along with Rollins who thinks they’re both  fucking insane. 

It’s innocent, probably the only kind touch the asset’s ever received. It makes Rumlow feel a little bit powerful, even if Helsel scoffs and gives him a gentle cuff on the shoulder despite the fact that _he’s_ the senior officer. Helsel tells him it’s _nice_ to be give the soldier something. Rumlow just likes the sounds he makes.

2.

 Helsel dies. He steps on a mine and there’s nothing they can do but watch in horror as he’s blown to pieces, not even enough left of him to send home.

They’ve lost men before, of course they have, but Helsel was young and well-liked and everyone is shaken up. The ride home is painful and silent. Rollins leans his head on the wall and won’t speak, Rumlow clenches his fists until his knuckles crack and turn white, his nails digging half-circles into his palms, and the asset sits silently in the corner, away from them both, head down and eyes on the floor. Rumlow is pretty sure the soldier’s eyes keep darting to him when he thinks no one is watching.

"Come here," he says after awhile, low but hard enough that the soldier knows it’s an order. He doesn’t resist when Rumlow motions for him to kneel at his feet. One hand reaches out, half hesitant, before sliding into the dirty hair, and the soldier gasps, louder than the first time, and arches into his touch. His eyes are big and sad when Rumlow looks into them and he strokes the soldier’s head slowly before starting to draw away. The asset makes a wounded noise, half-aborted and stuck in his throat, and tries to push forward again before he must remember he’s not allowed to touch without permission and shrinks back in on himself.

Rumlow gets an awful idea. But he’s hurting and he’s angry and hey, the asset wants touched right?  The men have done it before, with one another, after long missions or close-calls, pressed together and rocked, hands or mouths around each other’s cocks. He knows the soldier has seen them, always looking to Helsel or Rumlow after like he’s asking if it’s all right, and Helsel had always made him stop, muttered that it wasn’t right, that he couldn’t consent. And, well, Helsel isn’t here anymore is he?

The sound of his zipper being drawn down echoes in the room ( _"The fuck are you doing?"_ Rollins hisses from his place on the bench opposite him.) and he draws his dick, already starting to rise just from the thought of finally taking that pretty mouth, from his pants. He replaces his hand in the soldier’s hair and tugs him forward gently. “Go on,” he murmurs, scratching the scalp beneath his fingers lightly and the asset, so fucking desperate for touch, takes him in his mouth without question or hesitation. 

And _fuck_ , does he know what he’s doing with it. It should probably concern Rumlow that the killing machine can suck cock like the best whores in the city, but he can’t think of anything other that _wet hot tight good fuck_. He doesn’t hold the soldier’s jaw and fuck his throat like he wants to, keeps petting his hair and stroking his face, sweet gentle touches as the asset works him over. It’s over pathetically fast (he chalks it up to the stress of the situation) and he holds the soldier’s head in place, grip gentle, until that throat contracts around him and he swallows.

When the asset draws away, lips swollen and red and fucking made of sin, Rumlow cups his cheek and runs his thumb over that full lower lip, slick with spit and a little come and the asset full-on whimpers and leans into him, head tilting and eyes closing. 

“ _Fuck_ , Brock,” he hears, and glances up to see that Rollins has moved, standing awkwardly beside him, pupils blown wide with arousal and cock hard in his pants. Rumlow just smirks.  

It’s like a fucking drug.

3. 

It becomes a habit after that, a fucking addiction. Every time the soldier is thawed and set to a mission, Rumlow and his strike team are there beside him.

Sometimes there is a hint of recognition in the soldier’s eyes when Pierce introduces Rumlow as the team leader, and others it the same cold, dead stare. It doesn’t really matter; either way, the little touches have the same reaction: a sweet sound of surprise, an immediate arch into the touch, eyes big and grateful and a little wary. 

He makes the asset kneel at his side whenever he sits, lets him rest his cheek on his knee like he’s a fucking king and the soldier is his pet. It feels good, feels _powerful_ every time the Fist of HYDRA tilts into his hand and makes a sound like kitten crying for milk. The men stare and seethe with jealousy; it rolls off of them in waves and he smirks smugly in their faces, although he’s fairly certain the soldier wouldn’t object to them joining in.

Rollins is the first to try. The soldier’s mouth is around Rumlow’s cock and Rollins approaches, warily, and slides a hand up his spine. The asset shudders, moans around the thick length in his mouth, and twitches like he can’t decide which hand he wants to press into and shivers between them, making low needy sounds in his throat like he’s dying for it.

Rumlow pulls out of his mouth and the soldier looks confused, but settles when Rumlow’s hand joins Rollins’ on his back, rubbing across his flank and his shoulders, up and down his spine and into his hair. They make him rip his shirt off so they can touch skin and he damned near keens under the gentle touch. Rollins’ can’t stop himself from pulling his cock out, jerking off in quick rough movements with his free hand and fuck if Rumlow doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing and scramble to join him because _fuck that’s hot_. Rollins sprays hot and thick over the soldier’s muscles with a choked groan and Rumlow isn’t far behind him. They rub the spilled seed into the asset’s skin and instead of recoiling, he presses up into them, like he’s whining for more.

Between his legs, the soldier is hard, and fuck if that doesn’t change everything.

4. 

It doesn’t take long before the whole team is joining in. They pet the soldier, pat his head like he’s a dog and he tilts his head into their hands and hums at the back of his  throat in as close to happiness as he will probably ever get. He seems to crave their touch, does better in the field if they pat his back before they ship out and lean in, grumbling in his ear the things they plan to do to him if he does a good job.

He always does a good job.

Rumlow likes to watch and he likes to be in charge. He sits, the soldier on his hands and knees before him, mouth around his cock again, almost choking on it with how far down his throat it reaches. 

He governs the other members of the team, as they stretch the soldier slowly, fingers slick slipping in and out of him until he’s ready to be filled. They take turns (Rollins is always first; he started this after Rumlow of course and he _is_ the second-in-command) fucking him slow and deep. The soldier squirms on their cocks, mewling around Rumlow’s, his own hanging hard and red and painful between his thighs. 

Rumlow  scratches the soldier’s head, tangles his hands in his hair and pets him while whoever is fucking his pretty ass rubs up and down his back and sides, sometimes sliding a hand under him to stroke his belly (never his cock, he doesn’t deserve _that_ much) while they pound him.

He keeps making pretty noises, muffled by the dick stuffed in his mouth and he sways between them, so eager, so _desperate_ for more of the sweet touches that he can’t stand to hold still. He doesn’t really seem to care about being fucked; it’s just the hands he wants, fingers swirling patterns across his spine, blunt nails scratching at his scalp, big warm palms rubbing his hips, always a little sore when they’ve used him and come in him and wiped him clean with a cloth and he moans a little, weakly, under their touch, which makes them laugh.

Despite the cocks filling him up, the sweet rhythm and the jabs to his prostate the men always aim for, by the time everyone has finished, Rumlow included, the soldier is still dripping and hard, cock purple and aching, and all it takes it the softest press of lips to his temple before he’s shooting off, coming untouched with a ragged sob before he goes limp.

It’s fucking intoxicating. 

5. 

It’s not always nice.

Rumlow has bad days. He gets reamed by Pierce or Sitwell or fucking Fury, he has to sit around with Captain fucking America and listen to him wax poetic about freedom and righteousness and it makes him gag for how fucking _naive_ he is, how _blind_ they all are.

He was long ago put in charge of the soldier whenever it is dragged from its ice prison, long ago rose in the ranks and became Alexander Pierce’s righthand man and most trusted agent. It means he gets what he wants. And sometimes, often, what he wants is pain.

  
_Order through pain_ , drilled into his head since he started out some twenty years before and he thinks sometimes, when he sees the soldier leaning into a soft hand on its cheek, that they’ve been too indulgent, too _weak_ when dealing with the asset.

He waits until it (because it’s not a person, it’s a weapon, a tool, an _asset_ ) looks up at him with those pathetic big round eyes, and reaches forward as if to pet its hair. Its eyes close as it prepares to lean into his hand, nuzzle even, and he cracks it across the cheek in a backhand that knocks it to the floor.

It looks up at him, confused and wide-eyed, but it doesn’t fight back. It fucking _leans into_ the next slap, like it’s so desperate for touch it will take the bad if it means even a hint of good.

It makes him sick. He fucks it raw and bleeding, nails scraping, not blunt and light scratches but gouging down its back. It arches into them even as it whimpers, soft frightened noises of confusion.

When it’s over, he kisses its face with another slap and _fuck_ it still managed to get hard through all that. He wonders, leans in to kiss its temple, the softest touch it’s had in weeks. It still shoots off without a touch.

_Pathetic_.

+1  
  
Steve is always touching Bucky (he has a _name_ he’s never had a name before.) When he had shown up on Steve’s doorstep, the taller man (was he always this tall?) twitches and jerks like he’s stopping himself from doing something. He interprets it as a move toward violence and suffice it to say, their first meeting doesn’t go so well.

But now Steve, _his Steve_ , holds his hand and runs his thumb over Bucky’s knuckles. He sits down next to him and their entire sides touch, from knee to shoulder, and sometimes he lets his head loll onto Steve’s shoulder. There are hands on his knee, on the small of his back, slung around his shoulders and it feels so _good_. 

He’s waiting for Steve’s hand to clamp over the back of his neck, push his mouth over his cock and fuck his throat. He wouldn’t say no (he’s never said no) and he misses being petted like that and called a good boy.

He almost falls asleep with his head in Steve’s lap when he feels fingers threading into his hair, stroking lightly and he hums and thinks it’s finally begun. Tilting his head, he mouths over Steve’s zipper, ignoring how his friend freezes beneath him, going tense and stiff and unhappy, as he finds the zipper with his teeth and starts to tug it down (Rumlow was a good teacher.)

Until Steve is jerking up and away from him and he’s knocked to the floor. He doesn’t know what he did wrong and he cowers there for a moment, although Steve has never raised a hand to him like that, and apologizes in a rasping whimper, stumbling over his words. He doesn’t want to answer when Steve asks what he was doing, but he can’t lie, not to Steve.

“They always wanted me to…” It comes out a whimper and he flinches at how weak he sounds, gesturing helplessly. “When they were nice. When they… touched me nice.” He can’t look because Steve’s face is twisted in horror and he wants to crawl into the floor and never come out  and _what’s wrong with him?_

But Steve jerks him up from the floor and he’s not mad, shaking a little himself. He twitches and jerks like that first say Bucky showed up on his doorstep and then he tugs Bucky against him, arms winding around his back and shoulders and holds him tight, rocking slowly, one hand in his hair and the other rubbing his back and he realizes _this_ is what Steve wanted to do that day.

He gasps and whimpers and sinks into the touch like he’s butter and Steve is the sun. They never did this, never held him close and whispered soft things into his hair. He raises his arms and clings back and thinks that there will never be a better feeling in the entire world.

They don’t let go for a very long time.


End file.
